At first, we saw on the news that some students were refusing to sit in exam halls and participate in an unfair system, but we didn’t take it that seriously. Then it spread on social media and people started forming groups and planning something bigger. We joined some of those groups and started discussing what our expectations and targets were.

The platform that unified students from every division and major university was the Anti-Discrimination Student Movement (Boishommobirodhi Chatro Andolon). Formed in early July 2024, it served as the strategic backbone of the uprising, which evolved from a localised protest against the quota system into a nationwide pro-democracy revolution.

To ensure the movement was truly representative and resilient against crackdowns, leadership was structured through a vast network of coordinators and co-coordinators. By early August, this team expanded into a formal 158-member central committee, intentionally including student leaders from public and private universities, colleges and madrasas across all administrative divisions of Bangladesh. Organisations, political parties and the public provided food, water and support to protesters on the ground.

So the protests started in two or three universities and then spread across the whole country. It was like a spark that caught fire. People came to the protest sites in large numbers, with handwritten leaflets that read things like ‘we want our rights’ and ‘stop the quota system’.

Social media was essential, with mobile phones and messaging groups instrumental in sharing news quickly and bringing people together. When WhatsApp became slow, people switched to Facebook and Instagram. When the government blocked those platforms, people started using Telegram, using VPNs for communication and sharing locations through simple text messages.

But it wasn’t all social media. When the entire system was blocked, with no internet, no social media and no calls, the national coalition kept spreading the news to every group. People kept using their phones to take photos and record videos, and passed them to anyone with media connections so the news could reach people through television. Tea stalls became hubs, with people gathering there to discuss what was happening, and the news spreading informally, from person to person, home to home.

There were many girls and women on the streets, standing alongside everyone else, facing the same dangers. But there’s this moment I will always remember. It was around 23 July, our last day at the office before everything closed. I finished work and started walking home. When I reached the place where I would normally take a bus, people were setting fires everywhere. There were no buses and the journey, which normally takes an hour and a half, took me six to seven hours. And my mother kept calling and telling me, as a woman, I shouldn’t be out there. Her fear was very real.

But after the uprising, something shifted. In the movement and at the civil society level, women’s voices are more accepted, more invited in. This has not yet changed at the government level, but others are increasingly telling us our voices matter.

The biggest achievement was showing that young people’s voices really matter and cannot be ignored. And when Hasina left, the whole country was out on the streets and it felt like we were all in it together. I wasn’t part of the independence struggle, but I was part of something important. We were fighters too. It was a proud moment for all of us.

But there are also failures. The unfairness of the quota system hasn’t been fully resolved. Some changes need more time and stronger, longer-term commitment, not just from young people, but from everyone.

What concerns me most about the post-uprising period is the growing mob culture. In order to change things, young people need to enter policy discussions peacefully and strategically.

The young people I work with have connected with political discussions and planning processes at the city and national levels. They want to feed their voices into the system. And we are now seeing young people in government positions, which means there’s a chance there will be changes to laws and policies.

At SERAC-Bangladesh, we have four councils with 80 urban youth councillors who are directly connected to city authorities. After the uprising, these councillors handled local situations, managed traffic and brought young people together to discuss the problems they face, find solutions and connect them with both the protests and the systems.

In Mymensingh, for example, our youth council and the other local young people sat together with the city administrator and presented their expectations directly to him. He accepted them and said he’d accept youth guidance on climate issues, health, parks, roads and all the initiatives that help the city make things better. That was a big achievement.

That needs to continue. Young people should take their ideas and expectations into formal spaces, not through protest alone, but through planning meetings and face-to-face advocacy with the people who have the power to make changes.

The young people and our volunteers. When I see them motivated, it motivates me. It’s energising to see I can change something that will help our country and the next generation.

I feel a responsibility because I know if I take the first step, many people will follow, but if I just sit down and wait, nothing will happen. So I must take that step and make a change from my side first. Even if it starts small, there’s a chance it can grow. If I share one idea with a volunteer and they run with it, change may happen.